Cute, isn't he?
by NeonRoses
Summary: BBC Sherlock fanfiction. Jim Moriarty finds a way of indirectly hurting the great Sherlock Holmes... He claims his loyal pet. But even that isn't enough for the criminal, it seems. Rated M for dark sexual themes and violence. Don't read if you don't like this kind of thing.
1. Chapter 1

Jim Moriarty sat in the back of a black London cab, suited in Westwood, a laptop propped on his knees. He scrolled through John Watson's blog.

_Oh wasn't he cute? Look at that little profile picture. That little face. So ordinary. So boring. So straight-forward and straight-laced. Even down to his short blond haircut. He was average._

Compare the adorably normal doctor to the tall, elegant, pale, unnaturally intelligent Sherlock Holmes and what a difference.

But Jim and Sherlock were the same. A single soul in two bodies. Sherlock had all the heroic traits, Jim all the villainous ones. Oh but Sherlock was far from heroic. Far from perfect. He had flaws that only Moriarty could access. He scrolled further down John Watson's blog and clicked on a random entry. He was greeted by a photo of Sherlock in a deerstalker._ Look at that… look at him. Those brilliant eyes and behind those eyes a brilliant mind. A delicious mind. How I'd love to unpick every ounce of him. Maybe another time._

The corner of Moriarty's mouth twitched upwards into a devilish smirk. His marble black eyes were wide with both apprehension and curiosity. There was only one sure-fire way to destroy the great Sherlock Holmes, and that was to destroy his loyal dog.

The short chirp of Moriarty's phone broke him from his course of thoughts and he grinned menacingly as he listened to one of his cronies speak on the other end of the line.

"Sherlock Holmes has been sighted on the other side of London. John Watson is confirmed to be within 221b Baker Street at this very moment in time. What's the course of action?"

Moriarty clenched his right fist and took a few short, sharp breaths to stop himself from giggling in excitement. "Oh delicious, get him for me. Get Doctor Watson."

...

John put the kettle on and leant against the counter as he waited for the water to boil. It was quarter to ten in the evening and apparently Sherlock was out investigating a seemingly 'easy' case with Lestrade and Donovan.

_W__ell it's taking it's time for something so goddamn easy_, John thought to himself, pouring the water into a mug and grabbing a teabag.

A sharp ring suddenly sounded at the doorbell.

John narrowed his eyes in confusion and turned to walk down the stairs.

_Well, it can't be Sherlock or Mrs Hudson, they've both got keys… Maybe it's just a bunch of kids again, trying to get a cheap laugh on a Saturday night._

Upon opening the door, John didn't have time to ask who the massively burly man in front of him was, for a shockingly sharp stab was felt in the side of his arm. John yelled in surprise and then blinked a few times as his vision went in and out of focus. _Oh shit. What the hell?_ He'd been drugged.

"Geddoff me… Geddoff…" John slurred, as the strange man lifted him from under his arms as a dead weight and as good as slung him into the back of a car.

John couldn't struggle. He couldn't do anything… he could barely raise his voice.

"Wha… what…"

His voice become quiet in his ears and a few seconds later - after hearing the low whir of the car engine - he blacked out.

...

"Wakey wakey sleepy head. Time to get up Johnny boy. Come on now."

Moriarty stood over John in a secluded, dark and damp hotel room. John was lying on the floor exactly where Moriarty's worker had placed him. John stirred and opened his eyes gradually, taking in his surroundings before a look of complete and utter panic passed over his features.

"W- What the hell is going on?" he muttered, trying to lift himself up but failing.

"Shhh shhh shhhhhh, attaboy, lie back down…" Moriarty whispered, placing his foot over John's throat, his hard polished shoe pressing into the doctor's skin and forcing him back onto the floor with a thump.

"Be a good boy, Doctor Watson… I know you're so, soooooo much more obedient than Sherlock Holmes. Then again, I suppose everybody is. Am I riiiiight?"

"What do you want?" John mumbled, knowing that his voice was getting more and more panicky by the second. _Where the hell was Sherlock?_

"You know what I want. I want _him_ destroyed. I want to chew him up and spit him out. But no, not yet. I have more _interesting_ ways of asserting my power. So cute, aren't you? How funny, ordinary little man."

John flinched when Moriarty knelt down beside him and began to stroke his hair back. "You'd look good all vulnerable. Crying for Sherlock. '_Oh Sherlock help me! Help me! The nasty man is back!'"_ Moriarty laughed gleefully at his own impression of John and he began to rub his hands together in excitement.

"Ohh I'm going to love this."

"Get your hands off me!"

"Sssshhh. I've got trained killers onto Sherlock right now. They'll torture him if I so much as press a button on my phone. And believe me Johnny, I will press that button if you deny me anything… _Easy_."

John shuddered, turning his face away as Moriarty got closer, breathing hotly onto his neck and darting his tongue out to lick a stripe from John's shoulder to his ear.

"Please, don't…" John shut his eyes tightly, but he soon found that this made things worse. It heightened his senses, and right now he didn't want to feel anything. Moriarty's hands were callously touching him, undoing the buttons of his shirt forcefully yet skilfully.

"W- why would you do this? You're not gaining anything." John tried to keep the quiver out of his voice.

"It's fun. I like fun. Besides, I can't wait to hear what Sherlock thinks when I tell him you loved this."

John grit his teeth then shoved Moriarty as hard as he could, but to no avail. Moriarty pushed him back down, his hands now on his neck, poised and ready to strangle. "You don't want Sherlock dead, do you? Like I said before Johnnnnnnny boy, I could get him killed anytime I wanted to. Oh yes, that's right." His voice turned sing-song. "Niiiice slow death for Sherlock Holmes. Maybe you could watch, hmm? Would you like that?"

"Stop this."

"Ummmmm." Moriarty's eyes widened with insane threat. "How about… no!"

"Get off!"

"You're going to adore this. Oh my, stop struggling sweetie. You'll do yourself harm. And that's my job."

John felt weak and heavy, exhausted and powerless. Moriarty was all over him now like a spider on its prey. He started kissing and biting and then dragging his nails over the now exposed skin of John's chest.

John's eyes flashed open suddenly as Moriarty undid his belt with a surprisingly loud click.

"I like this part… It's the part where you realise it feels ohhh sooo gooood. Oh, you _will_ enjoy it. And Sherlock _will_ know about it. He will forever know about the time his loyal little pet begged and pleaded his arch-enemy for more…"

John was visibly shaking now, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He knew full well that Jim Moriarty was a deviously intelligent man who could get anything he wanted.


	2. Chapter 2

The way Moriarty was now gripping onto John was not dissimilar to that of a snake, tightening his hold with every little struggle John made. Moriarty loved the feeling of John writhing beneath him, every twitch and strain of the doctor's muscles sent sparks of unadulterated pleasure straight to Jim's cock. Every moan and whine was like music to his ears. He couldn't wait to hear those whines turn into screams.

"Oh dear, hold on. My poor Westwood, it'll get creased. Give me a second Doctor Watson," Moriarty droned, shifting himself off of John and removing his jacket. He laid it on the empty, coverless bed beside them and undid his shirt cuffs.

"Be a good boy for me and roll over…" he instructed, glaring down at John as if he was a dog being trained by its merciless master.

When John refused, Moriarty leant down again and snarled, smacking his face so hard that the hotel room echoed with a resounding _thwack_. The force of it caused John to huff and turn over obediently, now lying on his stomach. He decided that the only way to get through this was to not give Moriarty what he wanted. He wanted to see John enjoying it and giving in. Moriarty wanted to get to Sherlock, not entirely by hurting John, but by damaging him psychologically – making him feel guilt for the pleasure of the onslaught. John bit his lip and vowed not to enjoy any of it. How could he possibly enjoy a rape anyway? Moriarty wasn't making any sense.

Suddenly he felt the weight of the other man on top of him. Moriarty had straddled his hips and leant down to kiss tenderly up the side of John's neck. It was as if he was kissing a lover, slow, languid movements of his lips and his tongue, wetting John's skin and making it shine in the dull, low light of the seedy room. John winced when he remembered his belt was undone, for Moriarty now had no trouble in drawing John's trousers down a little so they settled just above his knees.

"I'm not going to enjoy this… You want me to, but you should know that it's impossible."

Moriarty chuckled and moved back up, tracing kisses down the back of John's neck, feeling the older man tremble under him.

"I won't force you to beg, Johnny boy, you'll do that all by yourself…" And with that, he pressed his own hips down against John's, letting him feel his cock slide insistently against his arse.

John tensed and held his breath for a moment, biting back a sob as Moriarty pulled down his boxers, exposing him. The criminal smiled to himself as he stroked down the curve of John's back to his arse. He looked rather good for such an _ordinary_ person. Moriarty undid his own trousers, and began to stroke himself, all the while gazing down at John's vulnerable form. A crazed grin began to appear on Jim's face as he pushed himself at John's entrance.

"No no no no no," John muttered quietly to himself, clenching his hands into fists and unclenching them again, desperate to do anything in this position to ease the burning pain now shooting through his body.

"Oh this feels soooo wonderful doesn't it?" Moriarty crooned loudly, snapping his hips forward despite the lack of lubricant, causing John to yell. "I've always imagined this. Hmm I wonder if Sherlock would be struggler? Or maybe he'd enjoy it…"

John wondered if Moriarty actually had trained killers onto Sherlock right now. Maybe he didn't. Maybe that was a simple lie. But John didn't want to risk it. He didn't want to shove Moriarty off, only to see the consulting criminal grab his phone and dictate the slow death of Sherlock to a random assassin.

He'd have to endure it.

Through all the pain and the pulsing of Jim's cock inside him, John felt a strange pleasurable wave. He couldn't stop the groan that escaped his lips when Jim hit his prostate.

"Look at this. The little pet is enjoying it…"

"No, no I'm… not." John panted, his voice coming out in a growl.

Moriarty thrusted harder now, fucking John against the floor and holding him down as the man began to cry out.

"I think you're hard aren't you, Johnny boy?" Moriarty whispered, "I think you simply love this."

He pulled out suddenly, causing John to moan at the sudden feeling of emptiness. His cock was aching, though he wouldn't admit that to Moriarty. No. But he needed some release. Strangely enough, something had felt good, even pleasurable. John felt bile rise in his throat and he thought he was going to vomit. No no no, he couldn't want more. He just couldn't. How was Moriarty doing this?

John turned his head and glanced back at Jim who was smiling evilly and waiting. Waiting for what?

"What are you doing?" John asked, setting his jaw as to stop himself from appearing weak.

"Lift your hips a little…"

Moriarty's Irish accent was more pronounced with his breathlessness and he grinned when John got onto his hands and knees. "You're more willing than I thought…" he chuckled, reaching around and stroking John into full hardness.

John gasped and then bit his lip down as a punishment to himself.

"What do you want little pet? Hmm? Do you want to come? Do you want some relief? I can see you do. I'm observant, you see, like Sherlock. Sweet, _sweet _Sherlock. Oh I cannot wait to get him. It turns me on just imagining his blood, just imagining his pain. Hearing that deep voice trying to be all clever. Ohhh delicious."

John felt searing pain again when Moriarty pushed back inside him, harder this time and much faster. At the same time, his own cock was desperate for attention, but Moriarty had plans for that, oh yes. He folded himself over John so that his lips reached the good doctor's left ear.

"Touch yourself."

"No."

"Do it."

John groaned at the stabs of pain as Moriarty dug his nails into his hips. He moved his hand to his cock and began to stroke, slowly at first, but then he couldn't help himself. The fullness in his arse and the aching of his cock merged to make a sudden building of pleasure.

"Uhh. Oh god."

"Attaboy…"

John stroked himself harder and was disgusted to hear his own voice saying "more… deeper…"

Moriarty obliged easily and laughed to himself when the doctor finally peaked with a blissful moan, his come now all over the carpet beneath them.  
>Moriarty grunted and shut his eyes tightly, his own orgasm approaching quickly as John panted in a mixture of intense pleasure and pain. The criminal moaned loudly and almost dramatically as he came deep inside of John. "Oh… oh… Johnny boy who knew you felt so good?" He licked his lips and moved off the older man's body.<br>John shifted away, wincing in pain. But that didn't stop him from hurriedly pulling his boxers and trousers up. He was disgusted at himself, shocked and completely horrified.

He was beginning to do up his shirt when Moriarty walked over, cupping John's face in his hand. He leant forced and kissed the disgruntled doctor obscenely on the mouth before moving over and looking out of the window of the hotel room. He clicked his fingers. It only took about half a minute before two men came into the room and restrained John with handcuffs and a blindfold.

"Home time sweetheart…" Moriarty sang. "Give my love to that sexy piece of man you've got waiting at home. He'll be mine for the taking someday. Oh, and don't forget, I have your begs and pleads recorded. Maybe one day the gorgeous Sherlock will get to hear it all."

John's mouth hung open in shock but then he shook his head, not believing a word of it. The two men dragged him outside and into the waiting car. The blindfold and handcuffs meant he had to squirm around uncomfortably in the back seat.

For once in his life, he was conflicted as to whether he wanted to confide in Sherlock.

...

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you want more, just leave a review or something. :) I don't know whether to carry this on or not. But thanks for reading guys! I've never written anything so dark so it was kinda scary for me to even attempt this! Lots of love, x**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was sitting in his black leather chair, fingers steepled under his chin when John burst into the living room at 3am. John's eyes were glassy from both the drug and the ordeal. He soon collapsed in a heap on the floor - panting, gasping, clutching at his chest. He was experiencing a panic attack. He'd had them a couple of times when he'd served in the war. But this was worse. Much worse.

Sherlock's intelligent eyes clouded over in concern and he stood up, walking elegantly over to John's side and kneeling down, not speaking a word, but instead placing his pale hand on his friend's shoulder. He could deduce exactly what had happened, and yet he didn't know who had done this to John. Who would do this?

"M- Moriarty… he…" John gasped, as if answering Sherlock's train of thought. His eyes were watering, his chest heaving. He was still in immense pain, as if Moriarty was still inside him, torturing him continuously despite the fact it was all over.

"John… John! It's alright now," Sherlock muttered frantically, gripping at his flatmate's arm, his eyes alert. A pained expression crossed his face and anger began to bubble up behind the surface of his calm, collected mask. Bringing his phone out of his pocket, Sherlock dialled Lestrade who soon answered in a sleepy tone.

"Oi, Sherlock. What on earth is going on? It's three in the morning…"

"I need you to get here immediately. No questions. Just. Get. Here. Now."

He hung up then followed with a call to Mycroft. Except his brother didn't answer. Sherlock would have to make do with the answering machine.

"If you get this, Mycroft, put extra surveillance on 221B… Don't ask questions. Just do it."

Sherlock put down the phone and when Lestrade arrived looking hassled half an hour later, Sherlock stood up from by John's side and ran over to the Detective Inspector abruptly. "Look after John. At least until the late morning. And for God's sake, don't let him out of your sight. Do you hear me?" He'd never felt so protective in his life.

Lestrade was still rubbing at his tired eyes. "Bloody hell. Alright! Calm down."

"Sherlock, no!" John shouted. He seemed to have cottoned on. He knew Sherlock was leaving to find Moriarty. To find him on his own. "It's too dangerous. Don't. Don't go out there. Don't be so bloody stupid, you ignorant git! He wants you too! Don't you rea-"

But it was too late, Sherlock was out the front door and Lestrade was barring the way, pulling an exhausted and helpless John into the kitchen for a strong cup of tea and a serious conversation.

"It's Sherlock, he knows what he's doing, just trust 'im…" Lestrade had said, staring patiently into John's eyes while gripping his shoulders.

...

It was easy enough for Moriarty to find Sherlock. He'd expected the hot-headed detective to leave the flat in a fit of fierce anger. See, that was a weakness of Sherlock's – he always had to get what he wanted, even if he was risking his own life in the process. Oh how_ cute_, how novel.

Sherlock hadn't argued, flapped or struggled when two of Moriarty's workers had dragged him into the back of the waiting car. No, instead he greeted them with a sardonic smirk and sat in the backseat, his expression becoming unreadable once again.

When they arrived, it was at a different motel. Not that Sherlock would have known or cared about locations at this point. He just wanted to see Moriarty. And luckily enough, the men met – this time, though, it was in an beautiful suite.

Jim was in the bathroom splashing on an expensive male perfume when Sherlock was shoved into the main part of the suite and he smiled when he heard the detective's grunt of annoyance.

He emerged in a new, clean Westwood suit, his arms outstretched in greeting.

"Oh Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock… _what_ a surprise. Well, actually no, I kinda expected you, honey. But still, it's a surprise to see you looking so good for me."

Sherlock stood with his hands behind his back, his bright eyes dancing around the room as if looking for any hidden trouble-makers. It seemed there weren't any. The two men were alone. The consulting detective and the consulting criminal. Moriarty wanted him to himself, apparently.

"Your motive for hurting John," Sherlock said stiffly, "was to get at me, I presume? To entice me here? Don't worry, I am well aware of it."

"Clever boy. Ahead of the game as usual. And when I say gaaaame, I mean 'ordinary people.' You're_ always_ a step _behind_ _me_."

Sherlock twitched in irritation, earning a smirk from Jim.

"Raping John is a weak, cowardly act, even for you," Sherlock snarled. "It reaches a new low. And trust me, if you wanted to assert your 'intellect', there were far better ways than simply throwing yourself on somebody."

Moriarty shook his head, amused. "Nooo, no no… I didn't just rape Johnny boy. He ended up enjoying it. I have the recordings if you want to hear later. But that's not why I brought you here, no… uh uh." He was still shaking his head slowly, a manic look in his eyes. He oscillated his head a little to the side, not unlike a reptile, then slowly walked towards an unmoving Sherlock. "I brought you here to rip you apart piece by piece… to watch you cry. To watch you scream and beg for mercy. Look at you. The virgin. Oh…" A psycho laugh erupted from his throat while the taller man stood still, his lips curling down in a mixture of confusion and anger. _There must be something else._

"Ah, I see what you're thinking about," Moriarty went on in his deep Irish drawl, "You think there must be more to this than just me harming you… because you could harm me back. You could kill me right now. But know this - I have a bomb implanted underneath your flat. It was put there while you were out and John was with me." He chuckled darkly. "It will blow the place apart, Sherlock, if you try anything now. It will blow John apart. And that silver fox of a detective inspector you've got round there tonight. Oh yes, and little Mrs Hudson. Oh, how adorable is she? But... if you behave yourself, they will all be fine... _Just _fine. Don't ever say I don't play fair."

Sherlock swallowed and turned his head away as Jim leaned in oppressively, breathing in the delicious scent of Sherlock's skin, his coat collar… his hair.

"I've wanted this for so long," Moriarty hissed, his voice strained with want. He clapped his hands together, a hidden blade falling out of his sleeve and into his grip. It was all a millisecond too quick for Sherlock, who now felt a painful slash of metal across his face, sending him reeling backwards. That, he did not expect.

"Let's begin…" Moriarty whispered.


	4. Chapter 4

Hot blood and searing pain ripped through Sherlock's nerves, the right side of his face throbbing with worsening agony. A few drops of crimson blood were splattered up the cream-coloured wall. Through the pain, he heard Moriarty's drawl, a firm hand now pressing to his throat.

"Meddling. Every. Single. Day. A criminal simply can't get things done with you hanging around, huh? When are you going to stop? Hmm? Just. Stop."

The marble black eyes were staring into his blue ones, spiderish eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he tightened his grip on the detective's pale neck. Sherlock wanted to kick, to attack… but he knew there were people watching in through the window of a faraway building, preparing to signal and blow up half of Baker Street if anything went awry.

"For such a clever, _clever_ man you do get yourself involved in sooooo many dangerous cases. Do you get off on danger, Sherlock? Are you liking_ this_?" He hissed out the 's' like a snake, his eyes lighting up with anticipation. He had the beautiful, willowy genius exactly where he wanted him.

Sherlock feigned a kind of ignorance, pretending not to know what the hell Jim was talking about. He kept his eyes cast to the side now, trying to ignore the incessant gaze of the man in front of him. It was almost invasive.

"Ahh, the silent treatment. Not like little Johnny. He was a struggler, you know. And he spoke quite a lot – in ways I liked. Cute, isn't he? You would know."

Moriarty dropped the blade beside them on the floor, blood marking the carpet. He started to let his eyes travel over the taller man's body hungrily, as if undressing him with his gaze.

"Oh, look. Look at your buttons, Sherlock. Why are you shirts so tight? You'll start giving people the wrong impression."

"Shut up."

"Nah, I don't think so." Jim reached up and undid the buttons one by one as Sherlock let his eyes close of their own accord. He didn't care much for what was happening now. The pain in his face was a problem, yes. But the undoing of a shirt theoretically wasn't a harm in any way, shape or form. He heard Jim moving downwards and the clink of the metal blade being picked up again. As the master criminal was bringing himself up to full height once more, he let his hand trace up Sherlock's inner thigh. _So close…_

Sherlock swallowed and let his eyes flicker open. He had to work hard to suppress the moan of surprise when he felt himself being touched right _there._

A disturbingly dark chuckle rose up from Moriarty's chest. "The virgin isn't so unfeeling after all…" He proceeded to manoeuvre his hand past Sherlock's belt and into his trousers. Sherlock flinched away but Moriarty had that warning look in his eyes and a sharp blade in his hand, not to mention a gang of watchers and snipers positioned across the road, watching through blinds, no doubt. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking over Moriarty's shoulder and out the window… trying to just see if there was actual evidence of someone watching. He had a plan. A plan that may not work… but a plan all the same.

Suddenly Sherlock's lips parted and he moaned vocally, being struck by a pleasure he had never felt before as his enemy's hand worked on his hardening length. Humiliated, but in need of it, Sherlock's conflicted emotions were obvious in his expression… and Moriarty was drinking it in, flicking his wrist at all the right moments – seeing that great mind come undone. This wasn't about sex or pleasure… it was about power and control. It was about getting one over on Sherlock Holmes. Teaching him a lesson once and for all. He had him right here, bleeding – red liquid spreading down his glorious cheekbones, his jaw and his neck. His neck, yes… it was exposed. He was leaning his head back against the wall, huffing in pleasure, his slim hips bucking forward every now and then. Moriarty took this opportunity to lean in, to lick up Sherlock's pale expanse of throat and then bite hard. A growl ripped up from Sherlock, his teeth grit together. Moriarty seemed otherwise occupied now, his grip on the now forgotten blade loosening. Ensuring the view of Jim's front was obscured from the buildings opposite, Sherlock hurriedly and skilfully snatched the knife and rammed it into Jim's stomach. Sherlock gasped loudly, acting as if it was him that had been stabbed. Both men collapsed behind the bed - rendered unseen by the spies.

Moriarty lay silently, his eyes wide, his hand reaching frantically for his phone or some other device. Sherlock hissed, pinning his nemesis down. His voice was low and silky. "You could have hurt me all you desired, Jim. You could have destroyed me in any way if you wanted. But when you hurt John… _don't _expect to get out of this unharmed."

Moriarty tried to choke out a reply, but found he couldn't. His body was becoming weaker, Sherlock could feel it.

The detective couldn't stand up now for fear of being seen from the window, so instead he crawled his way out of the room and then sprinted down the corridor.

…

Moriarty wouldn't die, no. He'd be fine eventually. There were curious snipers and spies on their way to see why the hell _both_ Sherlock and Moriarty had disappeared from view.

Sherlock had evacuated 221B, however, before any of this had time to happen. Bomb disposal experts had been called a minute later.

The fight wasn't over, though – far from it. But Sherlock's now evident devotion to his friend gave both Sherlock and John a reason to keep fighting in the battlefield that was London.


End file.
